Not A Victory

Mists
thickening to fog
twinning 
ethereal chains
clinging to my ankles
keeping me
holding me
in place;
for torment
for abuse
your side long glances
burning with righteousness
enough to keep me 
from running away.
Words
pierce the veil 
numbed with narcotics
views softened 
alcohol submerged 
pastel glows 
glum smile 
plastered all over my face.
Tricked.
Traded.
Parade.
Auctioned off to the highest bidder.
The throng grows
encompassing me
passing me 
from hand to hand
from mouth to mouth
until I am shredded
strewn
my inner peace dissolved.
You have won
my master three
watch now
I succumb to thee.

©March 15/23
Picture via Pinterest